


Simply loving you

by newmoons



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt, LGBT, LGBT+, Romance, queer, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29849391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmoons/pseuds/newmoons
Summary: Hunt for home.
Relationships: Amélie Lacroix/Lena Oxton, Lena "Tracer" Oxton/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Lena Oxton/Amélie Lacroix, Lena Oxton/Widowmaker, Lena “tracer” oxton/Widowmaker, Tracer X Widowmaker, Tracer/Widowmaker, Widowmaker/Lena Oxton, Widowmaker/Tracer, amelie lacroix x lena oxton, lena oxton x amelie lacroix, widowmaker x tracer, widowmaker/Lena “tracer” oxton
Kudos: 6





	Simply loving you

Widowmaker was under the right impression that none could touch her. It was an improbable thing- both in physicality and mentality- for her lethal and sickening edge had been honed by hours, and days, and months, and years, of venomous training, to keep her so far from the reaches of man alike, that surely she was a figment of nothing but darkness and shadows. 

The distance between the two had been such that the smallest of details once memorized now left nothing to its recollection, in the depth of any effort, if it were so visited. It was, it was. Hours were spent in sordid desire for a long-lost connection, which seemed only fleeting but for one night that had been indulged in perhaps for another matter entirely than what Lena had once thought. 

She often visited the same places at which she had first encountered the assassin, but did it matter? The woman never appeared, for all her time was much accompanied by the acts the hero was bent against and, as it was, the sniper did know the whereabouts of the one she hunted so doggedly wherever she may be: the home in which they had satiated such disreputable desires, or the tracks in which she followed each day with loneliness and deprivation heavy on that useless organ in her chest, which had once pounded for the reciprocation of attention now lost, and which sank at each interval which passed that they did not embrace. 

It was of no use to pursue, in any matter. The Widowmaker was sacrosanct to an organization wholly devoted against that which the hero embodied- the inclination towards peace and harmony, and what else could be asked for? It did no good to want for the love and affection of a woman so lost to the brainwashing and desolate nature of the people that did so. Yet, she longed, and yet, she fell. It was a cold and broken hallelujah she placed at God’s feet- whoever had watched over her to find her as so in need, as to see that struggle which she fought, and to bless her with its kind resolution. Yes, she had found Widowmaker’s home. 

The halls were barren and chilled, with little decoration, and likely in the mind of someone without her own personality aside from that given to her, or perhaps in pursuit of avoiding unwanted reminders of the murder committed. Regardless, it was a stark and uncomfortable feeling, as Lena wandered the long passageways that seemed to lead nowhere. She wondered if perhaps the assassin was as involved in thoughts of their rendezvous, though so long ago, that she wandered this same way. It was unlikely, but a false hope had long since seeded its way into the hero’s heart, and what was humanity without hopeless romanticism? Ah, that hope that changed her entire being, as the sun changed to the moon, as if overnight- and was it not their time together that had falsified yet concrete her determination? Yes, it was; yes, it was. 

A hand swept over the silken material of Widowmaker’s bed, which remained untouched for some time now, for lack of that human need to rest- or, perhaps, the same room was haunted by a memory refusing to be locked away: as emotionless as she would suggest, perhaps she could not fight the catalyst to her transformation, and perhaps this was still to her heart. The same which Lena had felt inaccessible to her, unreachable by so many brick, and steel, and barbed wire walls, that her fists bled from relentless pounding. Would she ever know her intimately? Ah, aside from in that temperament that had torn them asunder- would she? 

She had confided in Emily as of recent, that, when she had met Widowmaker, something had clicked when hazel had met the gold that had burned through her as though the molten precious metal itself. She did not know, nor did she know now, whether that had been the alteration of her life, or the alteration of her death, but, oh, had she been changed the more! It was but a brief passing, in which time had continued, and too fast those eyes had gone, but she would remember that feeling, and all of its weight, in her heart, for ever. 

There was an image, burned into her mind, as these things do, when one is in love, of the Widowmaker’s cruel beauty in her smile, gleaming and dangerous, in the moonlight that had but once shrouded their bodies so entangled that they could not be distinguished, one from the other. It was a fair testament to her loving nature- that the amount of times so held against her, and her very life, that Widowmaker had not taken that thing from her- that she was a forgiving creature. Where there should have been anger for a history of hatred, and murder, and corruption, there was only a dream- for its likelihood was very far from reality- that the Widowmaker would return to her, would allow Lena to find her the way she had been found by the other woman. Was it so impossible?

In one last attempt at salvaging that organ that kept her in search of her lost lover, she placed a letter on the pillow of the home that had not known warmth and care for many years now. On it, written in a careful and deliberate hand, as the hero had scrapped and attempted again many a time to place in the letters, perhaps in every heavy-sloping curve, and every jagged, and sharp, corner, for the shake of her hand had lent many tries a useless endeavor, the message that she had wanted to deliver in person, but had been too afraid, as a human was often wont in that fear of rejection, and had thus taken to the more probable venture of delivering.

Ah! What a remonstrance it was, to the very core of her being, which protested against her breath, to place her heart outside her chest! Her lungs felt hollow, holed, as though no air could ever save her from the suffocation of her long-felt mourning. It was the relinquishment of any last control she had felt she’d had, and she was again lost to the woman, as she had lost her time, and her mission, and her purpose. All had been lain at the sniper’s feet, where a chilled grimace met her pathetic worship that would have brought God down to his knees at its worst. Yes, she was in love.

It went without the need to say, this rumination contributed to an assault of dreams, that come from the consciousness of any individual, who is feeling a pain of heart, and as the dream faded, she chased it, forlorn. What goodbye she had not been given! What half answers she had! And now, the silence that rang seemed final enough, final enough. She was playing with a cold fire that burned with the rest of the oxygen in her tired lungs, wary of fighting for the benefit of a sob, or a scream, or nothing at all, and that used what little she could call upon herself, to say, “I am okay. I am okay.”

Ah, but what a beautiful lie! In its own, feeding a dying light seen in the Widowmaker’s golden stare, like something to believe in, and hands like a flame, and palms the sweetest pain, and what one touch Lena would let ignite her for one more beautiful lie! She would burn alive, and never call it a Hell even with half her heart in pieces- for, surely, the other half were healed; surely, surely.

If only one knew, it was Lena, that Amelie had not always been like this, but this was what had made her like this. She was the only to worship at the feet of the assassin- ah, what training had left her! Her body ached in a way she had never known through the days, and months, and years, of relentless training she had adopted in pursuit of her passion- which now, replaced, was another kind of persistence to her development in a creature of hope and light: she was the sun, insurmountable by anything, on land, and in the sea, and on the whole of Earth, insurmountable by anything other than the moon and all its stars and darkness. Yet, there was no course and no mentor to keep her alert enough to guard that heart which she left so defenseless in Widowmaker’s name, for, the parcel read, “This I will remember, when the rest of life is through: the finest thing I've ever done, is simply loving you.”


End file.
